Up and Down (34 page)

Right through to the end of the two-month training program, the gruelling pace of daily briefings, training exercises, and weekly media interviews was sustained. Through it all, Eugene was still sarcastic and petulant whenever he was with Landon, although she never seemed to notice. She was unfailingly supportive in
return. There was one major hurdle they both still had to surmount before they could be cleared for the mission. Landon had spent decades preparing for it. Eugene had not. Landon was not worried in the least about the final test. As an “outstanding athlete,” neither was Eugene.

On the Monday of week eight, Landon, Eugene, and I boarded a
NASA
flight from Houston to California. We were headed for the heart of Silicon Valley and the Ames Research Center at Moffett Field, where Landon and Eugene would ride in the cramped cabin of the 20G Centrifuge. Technically, passing the centrifuge test, which really just meant
not passing out
in the centrifuge test, was no longer an official requirement for standard-issue
NASA
astronauts. But the chief of astronaut training, Scott Chandler, had insisted that Landon and Eugene be spun at Ames, just to simulate the Gs they would pull during the mission.

We landed at Moffett Field and were driven to one of the many buildings making up
NASA
’
S
state of the art R&D facility known as the Ames Research Center. After checking into our quarters and dumping our overnight bags, we were escorted into the 20G Centrifuge control room. Eugene and Landon were wearing their regular orange coveralls. I was wearing khakis and, well, it really doesn’t much matter what I was wearing.

The man himself was waiting for us.

“Scott Chandler, what a nice surprise it is to see you here,” Landon gushed as she shook his hand.

“Dr. Percival,” Chandler mumbled, his face yielding no evidence that in his lifetime he had ever smiled or would ever smile. He didn’t just wear his opposition to citizen astronauts on his sleeve. Rather, it was plastered all over his entire body and was thick in the aura around him.

“Good to see you again, Scott,” said Eugene. “So you’re our spin-master?”

“No, I’d say Mr. Stewart here is our resident spin-master,” replied Chandler, pointing an incriminating finger in my direction. “A
NASA
white-coat will be here shortly to push the buttons. I’m here just as an observer. As chief of astronaut training, I didn’t want to miss this.”

That was more of a smirk than a smile.

“You may know that I designed the program you’ve been enjoying these last several weeks. So far, you’ve both done reasonably well for uninitiated civilians. But we don’t send just anyone up into space. Before I flew my Apollo mission, I’d trained for six years, not two months,” he said, shaking his head.

“And your program included desert survival training, hours in the zero gravity of the pool, and a few runs on the rocket sled,” Landon interjected. “We know we’ve had it easy.”

“Well, it’s been easy up to now. Today’s little exercise is what will separate the men from the boys,” he said as he pointed through the control room glass into the darkness beyond.

He punched a button on the console in front of him and the 20 G Centrifuge appeared through the window in a wash of
bright light. The room was all white except for a large blue
NASA
logo on one wall. An oversized metal arm – as if constructed from a giant Meccano set – spanned the round room and was anchored to the floor and ceiling in the middle. A blue cab was mounted on one end of the arm and a red cab on the other. Just by looking at the centrifuge, it was pretty obvious to even the untrained observer how it worked.

“So how does this thing work?” asked Eugene.

“Well, it’s quite simple, Mr. Crank,” responded Chandler. “We strap you into a chair in the cab at one end of the radial arm, then we spin you to simulate the G-forces you’ll experience. You’ll have no trouble with the Gs at launch. They just push you directly back into your seat. No problem. We won’t even bother simulating the launch. But re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere after the mission is a much tougher proposition. Why?”

“Because the G-force vector is longitudinal, head to toe, not just straight against your chest, as it is at launch,” Landon piped up, nodding.

“Exactly right, Dr. Percival,” said Chandler. “So, we’ve oriented the seat in the centrifuge cab to yield the G-axis you’ll experience upon re-entry. Coming home, you’ll only be pulling about 1.6 Gs, but for some, it’s hard to take. And we always build in a factor of safety. So here’s the deal. If you can’t handle 2.1 Gs here, you won’t be cleared for the mission.”

“When do we start?” asked Landon, rubbing her hands together as if trying to start a fire between them.

A technician in a lab coat arrived right on cue.

“We start right now,” Chandler said.

“I’ll go first,” Landon offered and headed out the door to enter the big white round room.

We watched through the glass as two more white-coats seated Landon in the red cab and buckled her into the elaborate restraint system. A monitor flickered to life on the main console and Landon materialized before our eyes. The in-cab view showed her face-on to the camera. She looked gleeful and almost giddy. The tech in the control room donned a headset microphone.

“Are you ready, Dr. Percival?” he asked.

“I’ve been ready for nearly thirty years. Let’s fire up this merry-go-round!”

Landon’s voice came booming through the speakers in the control room ceiling.

The tech looked at Scott Chandler. The wizened astronaut nodded. Buttons were pushed, switches flipped, and dials turned. The noise of the motor grew louder as the big arm began to turn. A digital reading on the console gave us the G-forces in play in the cab. Suddenly, a very strange sound burst into the control room. It was almost like singing. Well, it was more like a donkey, or perhaps a water buffalo, singing.

Okay, it was singing. Landon was belting out an old show tune in a voice better suited for breaking glass. The readout registered .9 G. The tech immediately dialled back the speaker volume so Landon’s singing was no longer painful, just unpleasant.
Scott Chandler was wincing, but he was still watching the monitor. Landon looked like she was having a great time, beaming as she sang. The tech sought and received the signal from Chandler and increased the rotational speed. The readout now said 1.4 G.

“Come on, boys, let’s turn this thing. I’m not feeling much more than one G here!” Landon shouted, still smiling.

Then it was back to Broadway as Landon broke in to “June Is Bustin’ Out All Over.”

Scott Chandler nodded again, and the tech upped the speed once more. The digital readout jumped to 1.8 G. Landon kept singing but her tone changed. When the readout hit 2.2 G, her voice sounded like a cross between Pee-wee Herman and Linda Blair at the height of her big-screen exorcism. This made the next verse particularly excruciating.

2.4 Gs now.

Landon’s singing slowed a bit as she spun faster and faster. I didn’t dare look out the window to see the whirling arm but kept my eyes focused on Landon’s face as she sang through a smile.

“Aren’t we well beyond the required G force now?” I asked, getting a little concerned.

“Yes, we are. But I was trying to get her to stop that infernal noise,” Scott Chandler replied with a sigh, before nodding to the tech.

The digital readout peaked at 2.6 G just as she growled the song’s big finale at the top of her centrifuge-compressed lungs. It occurred to me that the U.S. Department of Defence might be interested in the destructive potential of Landon’s vocal cords.

I pulled my fingers from my ears as the cab slowed and the whine of the big motor waned.

“That’s it? We’re done?” Landon asked, her voice returning to its traditional timbre. “I was just getting started.”

Ten minutes later, Landon sauntered back into the control room as if she’d just returned from a nap.

“Congratulations, Dr. Percival,” said Scott Chandler with what seemed like resignation. “That was an impressive performance.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s one of my favourite songs,” Landon replied.

“I wasn’t referring to your so-called singing.”

“Oh. I chose that number especially for this occasion. It’s from
Carousel
. Get it?” She chuckled before turning to Eugene. “Well, you’re up, my boy. It’s time for you to whirl.”

Given his Vomit Comet experience, I silently wondered if “It’s time for you to hurl” might have been the more fitting declaration.

Eugene said nothing but shuffled out the door following the white-coat, as if being led to the gallows.

“He’ll be fine,” Landon said.

He was not fine.

At 1.5 Gs, his head lolled over to the right and his eyes turned up into his head. He passed out.

“He pulled a
funky chicken
and he wasn’t even at 2 Gs,” Landon said, pointing to the monitor.

The tech immediately dropped the speed. Eugene abruptly came to.

“Why are we slowing down?” he asked.

“Well, you passed out at 1.5 Gs,” the tech said into his headset microphone.

“What are y’all on about?” Eugene replied. “I was just sitting here minding my own business and enjoying the ride when you cut the engine to this here whirligig.”

“Sorry, sir, but we have it all on tape. At 1.5 Gs, you actually lost consciousness, so we stopped the test.”

Scott Chandler reached over to turn on the mike mounted on the console.

“I’m sorry, son, but that is what happened. It’s surprising but true. Give yourself a few minutes and we’ll try it again when you’re feeling ready.”

I leaned over to Landon’s ear.

“Why did you call it a funky chicken?” I whispered.

“Passing out during centrifuge testing has been called a funky chicken for as long as I can remember,” she explained. “I have no idea why.”

Twenty minutes later, Eugene was ready for his second spin.

“Eugene, it’s Landon. Let me give you a couple of tips before you start your second …”

“I’ve got nothing to learn from you. I’ve got this thing licked now. Just stand back and start her up.”

Landon stepped away from the mike, shaking her head.

Eugene’s second ride lasted slightly longer than his first, the operative word being “slightly.” He made it to 1.8 Gs this time
before the funky chicken came home to roost again. He seemed to realize he had passed out this time.

“Damnation! It happened again, didn’t it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Crank,” replied Scott Chandler. “I’m afraid so.”

We all gathered in a small briefing room down the hall from the centrifuge. Eugene looked like he might soon start crying.

“Mr. Chandler, Eugene made it to 1.8 Gs. Isn’t that enough for this mission?” asked Landon. “You said yourself we won’t pull more than 1.6 on re-entry, and he’ll be safely strapped in the whole time.”

“With the lawyers on my ass, I’m afraid we can’t take that risk,” Chandler said. “You could hit even more than 2.1 Gs on re-entry. Though I hate to say it, you are cleared to fly, Dr. Percival, but I regret we’ll have to wash out Mr. Crank.”

Eugene said nothing but buried his head in his hands and sustained a low moan that reminded us all of Landon’s centrifuge singing.

“Our flight back to Houston doesn’t leave for hours yet,” noted Landon. “Can we give Eugene one more shot later on?”

“I don’t see what trying a third time will accomplish,” Chandler replied.

“But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?” I asked. “He’s trained for nearly eight weeks now. Hasn’t he earned at least one more shot? It will not go over well to have to announce to the world that the
American citizen astronaut didn’t make the grade. It’ll overshadow everything we’ve tried to do with this program.”

“Well, I thought this whole idea was stupid from the get-go. So what do I care?” Chandler grumbled.

“Please, one last try?” implored Landon.

Scott Chandler checked with the tech about the centrifuge’s availability later on.

“Okay, Mr. Crank. If you’re up for it, you’ve got one final attempt at 1600 hours. I suggest you relax until then. You’ve got three hours to turn this around or there’ll only be one so-called citizen astronaut riding the
Aeres
.”

We walked back to our rooms together. No one said anything. Eugene turned the key in his door and went inside. Before the door could close, Landon followed him in. Wondering why, and not wanting to stand by myself out in the corridor, I followed Landon in too.

“What’s going on?” Eugene turned and asked with an edge. “You want to gloat some more?”

“You sure are testing my capacity for kindness,” Landon replied.

She pulled out the wooden chair from the desk and positioned it in the centre of the room.

“Sit in this chair,” she commanded.

Strangely enough, he didn’t look like he was interested in following her orders. What a shock.

“Sit down or you’ll blow your one remaining chance to hitch a ride on that shuttle, and all we’ve gone through in the last two months will be wasted.
Sit!
”

Despite himself, Eugene seemed to sense something in Landon’s tone that needed to be heeded. He sat down and folded his arms across his chest looking like a five-year-old on a time-out.

“Look, Eugene. You can do this. You’ve got one last shot,” she started. “I’ve been spinning myself silly in a centrifuge in my back forty for more years than I care to count. And I’ve learned the technique that can get you up past 2.1 Gs if you’ll just listen to me and practise.”

“There is no technique. You just sit and spin and try not to puke and pass out,” he whined.

“That is where you’re wrong,” Landon replied.

“Well, he’s been wrong in other places too,” I added helpfully.

Landon ignored me.

“We’re going to teach you
AGSM
. And you are going to sail past three Gs this afternoon.”

“What the Sam Hill is
AGMS
?” Eugene barked.

“It’s
AGSM
, and stands for Anti-Gravity Straining Manoeuvre. Here, I’ll show you.”